


Forty Days and Nights

by Spiderheart



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Begging, D/s, Dom/sub, Drooling, Indifference Kink, M/M, Mid-Century - setting, Orgasm Denial, chastity devices, dom!Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 07:28:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18889972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiderheart/pseuds/Spiderheart
Summary: From two asks I got on tumblr. One asked for Crowley begging, one asked for chastity devices. I was stuck until I flipped around some expectations.





	Forty Days and Nights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shadowrin865](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowrin865/gifts), [soongtypeprincess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soongtypeprincess/gifts).



‘Please, Angel.’

Aziraphale was rolling his ankle, legs crossed, as he read his book. The firelight gleamed on his horn-rimmed spectacles, which were unexpectedly fashionable. These days, Aziraphale was unexpectedly fashionable, and not because he was trying to be—fashion simply had come around to being something he liked, after thousands of years, and Aziraphale was enjoying how easy it was to find clothes he liked.

And Crowley was enjoying how Aziraphale was looking, lately, which was why they were playing this little game.

The only response Crowley got was Aziraphale turning a page, if that can be called a _response_. Crowley whimpered, swallowing hard, because he was _salivating_.

Aziraphale had grown more fashionable, yes; but currently, he was only wearing one thing, other than his spectacles, and his favourite ring, and that was the problem, because the item in question was made of brass, and the firelight made it gleam a great deal brighter, and it was locked with eldritch symbols etched into the brass, and Crowley couldn’t even _see_ the angel’s cock, though the brass more than made clear where it was, and how it was trapped in an aroused state, and _Crowley wanted to touch it so badly he thought he might Fall **again** , _if that was even _possible_.

‘Aziraphale,’ he said, hoping that his tongue wrapping around the name would work better. ‘Aziraphale, please, just for a moment, just one, I swear you can—’

‘No,’ Aziraphale said it without even looking up, without even really paying attention; it was in that sort of tone. That _don’t even think about it, mister_ tone that only mothers and aunts and grandmothers and friends of Dorothy knew.

‘It’s so _pointless_ , isn’t it, manifesting them when you’re going to do this?’ Crowley hated how much whine was in his voice.

‘The point of Lent is suffering,’ Aziraphale said, turning another page. He didn’t, however, tell Crowley to stop begging; a detail which Crowley could not help but notice. Bastard.

‘It’s _you_ suffering, not making _others_ suffer,’ Crowley tried a different tack, but it wasn’t going to work, he knew that even before he heard the desperation in his voice, felt the drool escape, trailing down from his full lower lip. He sucked his lower lip into his mouth, but it was too late, and he heard Aziraphale give that soft chuckle, the one that _always_ made Crowley flush and look away, and get so hard he could probably snap buttons, if he’d been wearing any at the time. As it was, his cock was as miserable as Aziraphale’s looked, all strapped into that brass _thing_.

‘I’m not stopping _you_ from having fun, my dear,’ Aziraphale said, turning another page. ‘Feel free.’

‘I’m not—’ Crowley sputtered, incensed and flame-cheeked. ‘I’m not _abusing_ myself in front of you, angel!’

‘Masturbating,’ Aziraphale said.

‘What?’

‘It’s called _masturbating_ , dear, and they’re now saying it’s perfectly natural behaviour for young men.’ Another page turned. ‘And you are welcome to do it using my image, my dear, I don’t mind.’

‘Ngk.’ Bastard. How was it that _he_ was the one that remained composed while talking about such things? Wasn’t _Crowley_ the demon, here? Wasn’t _Crowley_ supposed to be the foul tempter? Bastard.

A smirk that should have, really, been grounds for Falling. ‘I assure you,’ he said, beatifically, ‘I shall not suffer Temptation if you do it before me.’

Crowley _came_ , quite suddenly and quite untouched, so hard that he collapsed fully, even sitting on the floor as he already was, on the fur rug of his new apartment.

‘Oh, goodness,’ Aziraphale said, finally looking up over his book, ‘you _are_ desperate, aren’t you?’

‘Bastard,’ Crowley gasped.

‘I know,’ Aziraphale said, with what might be considered, had he not been an angel, _wicked glee_. He marked his page, uncrossed his legs, got up, and went to put the book away, leaving Crowley lying there on the bear rug, panting for all the world like he’d been fucked, and thoroughly.

Which, in a way, he had.

The bastard.

**Author's Note:**

> Liked my work? Want to talk to me? Come over to [my discord](http://discord.gg/jPxA2xW) and say hi!


End file.
